


tear me to pieces, skin and bones (our love, welcome home)

by Buttercup_ghost



Series: we are stranger than earth, with her seasons mislead [1]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa 3: The End of 希望ヶ峰学園 | The End of Kibougamine Gakuen | End of Hope's Peak High School, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Domestic, Emotional Baggage, Established Relationship, F/M, Happy (late) valentines day, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, Love, Melancholy, Mental Health Issues, Near Death Experiences, Post-Canon, Post-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Relationship Study, Scars, Tragedy, Tragic Romance, Trauma, Trust Issues, Valentine's Day, no proof reading we die like the tired ass fools we are, supposed to be like when they’re rebuilding hopes peak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 21:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17816222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Buttercup_ghost/pseuds/Buttercup_ghost
Summary: “Do you know what day it is, today, makoto?” Her voice is gentle, nearly drowned out by the rain, the question like honey dew falling from her pale pink lips. Makotos unable to look away, captivated. “No,” he answers honestly, because no matter what he knows she’ll always be able to see through him.~(Makoto doesn’t know if they’re healing, or breaking each other.)





	tear me to pieces, skin and bones (our love, welcome home)

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this in one sittin w out rereading & editing it hghgnsnxnsmd im way too tired to actually make this good srry

He’s holding her hand.

It’s something he marvels at, that she trusts him enough to let him see her, all of her. She says her scars are ugly, make her damaged, but he only sees them as a mark of her strength. Beautiful and horrific—a map of the horrors she’s endured, written right there on her palm. Still, though, even if she finds this part of her ugly, she shows him it, and it makes him near giddy every time. He loves her, loves holding her hands, no matter how rough they may be. (it’s so much better than the scars on her face, covered up by paper thin foundation, a half and half line representing when _he almost killed her—_ )

It’s raining, today, in this holy moment. An staticky white noise that gets stuck in his head, filling it with absence. He loves it, loves the void in his mind, how the pouring rain drowns out the voices and guilt, drowns out his thoughts and memories. Loves how her hand in his calms and soothes his heart, like a mantra, _you’re here, you’re okay, this is real._

It doesn’t feel real. After everything, this feels like a dream. But if it is one, he knows he never wants to wake up. He’d do anything for this, for this respite.

A pleasant paradise in a half-broken world, mended by patchwork pieces they weave.

( _but it’s just a mirage, he knows, so easily dispersed by reality, by blood tinted walls and uncleared bodies_ )

The weight on his shoulders lessens, for a moment, the responsibility lifted, the world that was unceremoniously pushed onto his chest becoming lighter, lighter, light enough so that he could  _breathe, breathe_ , instead of suffocating on expectations and demands. The burden of his life, cradled in her strong hands, more suited than his own. Sometimes, he hates that people look to him, him who isn’t worthy, who is just a _normal, average_ guy not built for this stuff, instead of _her_ , whose only flaw is preservation. 

( _in that way, did junko win? in that way, was hope and despair both just shades of grey, painful in their own right, blurry where they thought clear cut lines were? he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know, and day after day the answer is getting farther and farther away. what is this emotion, in his chest, replacing the space in his lungs, killing him?_ )

( _is it love? it feels like he doesn’t know anything, it feels like he’s falling, destined to land among the garbage, throw out and left to die, by her, why why why did you do this kyouko **why did you leave me to die—**_ )

(don’t think that, you shouldn’t think that, she almost died or you, she almost died for you— _but she knew she wouldn’t die, didn’t she?)_

She hums, pleasantly, still standing, even as he sits. He looks up at her, as she leans over him. He can’t help but think this is how it’s supposed to be—her above him, in every way, pale purple hair spilling out over her shoulders, an almost angelic light washing over her. He can almost fool himself, fool himself into thinking it’s how it was before, before the world went to shit and his friends died. Before half of her darkened, and before he grew, was forced to grow, become an adult too soon. Back when he was a child, was _allowed_ to be one, innocent and naive but _happy_ , anyways, content and hopeful, optimism without the tint of despair. But those days are just dreams, when his worst fear was not being enough, instead of a reality he lived in everyday, smiling and pushing forward despite it, despite how the world pushed back. 

She was so much better than him, in every way. 

( _because even as he pretends this moment is all there is, all there ever was, even as he denies the past and reality and his own heart, she refuses to blind herself, seeing it all with the same expression upon her face_ )

But she still smiles, slightly, at him, and the knowledge that he was the one to put that gentle, fragile happiness on her face makes his heart melt. She’s been through so much, gone numb, and the skill to make her soften is his most protected treasure, held close to his heart. She takes his face in her hand, finger tilting it up until his eyes met her own. Beautiful, intense, purple orbs that seemed to see to his very soul, as if his green really was a window. All the while, her emotions stayed unreadable, a steel safe shutting out potential threats, analyzing, always on watch, on guard.

“Do you know what day it is, today, makoto?” Her voice is gentle, nearly drowned out by the rain, the question like honey dew falling from her pale pink lips. Makotos unable to look away, captivated. “No,” he answers honestly, because no matter what he knows she’ll always be able to see through him.

She laughs, faded, hardly there, a breeze. There’s something rueful in it, light and airy in contrast to the bitter edge of her voice. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

He hangs onto her every word, every action, every change in her expression, like it’s gospel. Because, in a way, it is. It’s all he can cling to, all he has, her words and advice that’s saved them a hundred types over. He holds his breath for her, knowing it would get caught in his throat, anyways. “Sorry,” he breaths out, when she allows him to, sentence finished, the air that’s gone stale in his lungs rushing out. And she nods, something sad on her face, smile both wry and raw. “I know.”

He doesn’t point out that he had no way of knowing, that no one did—that somewhere along the tragedy, when the sky was red and days dark, time blurred into estimates, losing meaning within the mess. He knows she knows that, already, knows the apology isn’t for forgetting, but not knowing. Not knowing, no matter how impossible it seemed. He didn’t bother questioning how she knew, either, didn’t give thought to the idea that she might have been wrong, too. It didn’t really matter, after all.

Her tongue peaks out from her lips, just a bit, wetting them. It’s a nervous habit he could have sworn she didn’t have before. “I love you,” she says, and it sounds like something tragic instead of tender. He pulls her hand towards her, the hand that’s now clutching onto him tight, tight, as if he’d vanish without her hand to keep him up, as if he’d fall, slipping from her fingers ( _she did this, she did this, the press goes bang bang bang like her broken, broken heart—_ ) and she frowns at her own shakiness. He presses the back of her fingers into his lips, soft and gentle and loving, and when he looks up, there are tears streaming down her face, the hand free from his grasp pressing against her mouth, to keep her words, her sobs, her apologies in, because she knows him, knows he’d never accept the _I’m sorry_ trying to escape her. “I love you,” she whispers again, instead, voice rough and faint, strained, strangled, squeezed from her vocal cords, her heart, with great effort. “I know,” he says, easily, “I love you, too.” 

He wishes he got her chocolate and roses, instead of only the faint smell of chalk dust and old desks. But he didn’t, and he thinks that maybe fine, because they never were a perfect love story, full of cheesy romance and neck kisses. Because they’ve always been wrecked, always kissed each other and tasted metallic blood instead of sweets. Because that’s not who they are, and that’s not what this world is. Maybe, maybe if it were different...

( _but if it was different, would they have ever come together in the first place? their love is far from pure, built on bodies and throes, built on agony shared daily like one would affections. and a part of him wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t trade the world for this, would sacrifice anything and everything for these moments. it’s the part of him that’s selfish, the part of him he hates, the part of him that could damn others for just this sliver of paradise. the part of him that makes him know he wouldn’t change a thing, even if he should, preferring to break and mend over and over if it’s with her—preferring to destroy her and him and them with his own hands if it meant he could touch her_ )

He smiles at her, shattered and fixed underneath her hands, her gaze, all at once. She smiles back, like a crack in a doll (  _her pale complexion like porcelain, before him, before he ruined it, ruined her, taunting her pure white with dark, dark, dark_  ) and he wants to put the pieces of him within it, within the fragments of her, desperately seeking out some semblance of wholeness. They complete each other, and it’s all they want, all they can have, even as the edges of themselves scratch each other, even as their identities elude them, and they fall into each other. 

( _maybe_   _they want to be anyone else, maybe they want to be someone they can love, maybe if they smashed the peices of themselves into a incomprehensible mess they could love themselves, too. because soulmates weren’t born, but made, and they were the type of people pleading to be close, with someone, without showing eachother themselves_ )

She leans down, gentle and fierce, desperate and controlled, capturing his lips with her own. It feels like a death sentence. It feels like a wish come true.

( _”I love you,” they both repeat, over and over, the only words they need, the words that were everything, from a plea to an apology, wrapped up into one, desperate, deprived thing._ )


End file.
